Trust
by limpet666
Summary: He knew he would be okay, because Murdock was there and he trusted him. Murdock wouldn't let him die.


Story: Trust

Author: G. Richmond

Feedback requests: Grammar, story flow, characterisation

Author's notes: Cant say that seeing Face get shot didn't suck, although the episode was filled with angsty, dramatic goodness, which everyone knows is fuel for plot bunnies.

The last thing Face remembered was successfully disarming the would-be robbers of the small Italian restaurant Murdock was currently finding employment at. They had shared a look with Frankie, pleased at their good-deed, and silently congratulating themselves for taking the criminals down so swiftly and uneventfully. The men had surrendered without a fight and…

No, that wasn't right.

It was the sound more than anything that had alarmed him, the loud cannon-fire that bounced around the small room. It touched everything; the tables, the chairs, the plates and even the glasses rang with reverberations as the waves of concussion expanded from the inconspicuous man across the room. It made his hair stand on edge and a cold shiver ran down his back like someone had poured ice water down his collar. The sound crashed into him like a punch to the stomach, the air rushing from his lungs in shock.

At first he didn't even realise what had happened, his ears still ringing and his head getting foggy with a wave of dizziness. Then the sticky heat soaking into his shirt brought his attention and he looked down, hands lifting curiously to the rapidly growing red stain. It was so red. He hated that colour. That exact red. It reminded him of nothing good; of war, of death, of soldiers he had called friends and who he had watched die. Red was blood. He had seen BA bleed on a number of occasions. And Murdock. Murdock had been shot, shot bad. It felt like so many years ago, but the feeling of fear and panic was too easy to relive. He had been so scared, scared that they, that he, would lose the pilot, that he would die so needlessly, and it would be their fault.

He didn't want Murdock to die. He didn't want him to ever suffer like he had with that bullet lodged in his shoulder. It had been so unfair, and seeing him like that had been so terrible. It filled him with dread and panic that that might ever happen again.

Panic. Was that what he was feeling now? It sure felt that way as his skin flushed hot and cold, his body catching up before his mind did. He had been shot. Right in the stomach. That wasn't good, right?

All of a sudden the pain kicked in and he was breathless. It hurt too much. It was foreign and uncomfortable and he wanted it to stop. There were people around him, but he couldn't make out what they were saying as his world spun and his vision started to darken like he had half closed his eyes. He couldn't even make out if he was still on his feet. The pain was so intense it was absorbing everything; sights, sounds, touches. Even if he fought it he couldn't see past the blood that stained his vision.

Of all the forms and figures that rushed around him, only Murdock was recognisable; the tallest there, and comfortingly familiar. His vision darkened further until it seemed like someone must have turned out the lights. The pain was still there, spreading in his gut like a fire, but his panic was eased by the presence of the pilot; Murdock would know what to do, he would make sure he was okay. Face trusted him implicitly. Murdock wouldn't let him die.

Images came in fragments after that. He was being moved into a warmer room, but the floor was hard and cold. Murdock came and went in flashes, expression disconcertingly serious and getting more and more anxious as time went on. Face wanted to tell him not to look so worried; he would be fine, he trusted him. But it was getting so cold and he was shivering, and he was getting confused. Where was he? What had happened?

Then it was dark.

The room Face woke up in was bright despite the curtains drawn over the windows, and he remained confused well past the usual sleep-disorientation. The confusion panicked him a little, as did his body's lack of response. It felt like he was completely weighed down, and he couldn't even lift a hand to his face to rub at his eyes. His breathing picked up anxiously as he fought to look around, his neck at first refusing to cooperate. His eyes had cleared enough to see that he was attached to a number of machines as well as a IV, and he tried not to focus on that long tube that fed into the needle taped into his hand. Images of why he was there and what had happened did nothing to ease his anxiety.

Finally he managed to turn his head, wincing a little at how stiff his neck felt, and his breathing immediately calmed when he saw that he was not alone in the room. Murdock was there, slumped over with his head pillowed on his arms on the bed next to Face's waist, face turned away. It didn't look like a comfortable position. Face couldn't help smiling, mentally at least (he wasn't sure it quite reached his mouth). Of all the people it could have been, it was Murdock he had most wanted to see there. Murdock had saved him, he was sure of it. He had been right there the whole time in the restaurant, looking after him; Murdock had got him out in time.

Sluggishly lifting a hand, Face lightly touched the pilot's hair, briefly petting the decidedly messy and unbrushed strands before running out of strength and dropping it back to the bed. Moments later Murdock stirred, turning his head down against his arms for a few seconds before slowly lifting it, eyes closed against the light.

Even though the pilot had only just woke, Face could see he looked drawn and haggard. His hair was unkempt and tangled, there were shadows under his eyes, and he looked pale and underfed. Still, all of this seemed to momentarily melt away with the smile that lit his face in surprise and relief when he saw that the conman was awake and looking at him.

"Face?" He ventured quietly, straightening before leaning forward, brown eyes wide.

Face smiled weakly (he was sure that one made it to his face), "Hey Murdock." His voice came out as barely more than a raspy whisper, and he winced at how dry his throat felt. Seeing this, Murdock immediately got to his feet and fetched a small paper cup of water for him, bringing it back to the bed and helping him drink. It would have been embarrassing to be in such a feeble position if he hadn't been so grateful for the water. He took only small sips, but still ended up coughing up the first couple, and the coughs almost made him cry out in pain.

By the time he was lying back down his breaths were coming out in small pants and his stomach ached fiercely. Murdock was looking anxious and guilty, obviously thinking it was his fault that Face was in pain; that he had done something wrong. Face tried to ease his fears with another smile.

"Thanks." His voice still grated but he sounded better, and the pilot relaxed marginally.

"How you feeling?" He asked quietly, as though speaking loudly would cause the conman more injury.

Face breathed a faint laugh at the question. He was guessing he probably felt a whole lot worse than he looked, "Oh, I feel fantastic." It came out slightly listless, but the smile on his face eased Murdock's worry, and the pilot finally managed a small smile back.

"Yeah, you look it Faceman." He agreed, and Face was glad for the humour, but the pilot's face was just too expressive, and his worry was plainly written all over it. It sobered the mood.

"Where am I?" He asked, looking around slowly. It was too decorated and cosy to be a proper hospital.

"Back at home base." Murdock answered with obvious unhappiness, brows drawing together briefly in a frown, and Face couldn't help being a little amused. The pilot made it no secret he didn't like Stockwell, but it wasn't without good reason. Murdock was loyal to his friends, and Stockwell put them in danger, as well as kept him separated from the rest of A-team. None of them liked that Murdock wasn't allowed to stay with them.

"How long have I been out?" Face asked quietly, wincing as he shifted a little. His muscles were achy and felt like they had atrophied.

Murdock hesitated, expression flickering briefly in something akin to upset, "Four days." He finally answered.

"Four-?" Face was shocked, and his stomach sank unpleasantly as Murdock nodded, the pilot looking down.

"Got pretty close at the restaurant," He explained, fingers curling into fists in the bed sheets, "Kept us there too long…you went in to shock real quick but they wouldn't let us go." He was frowning again, and Face didn't like that expression on him. Lifting a hand, Face lightly put it over Murdock's, finally getting the pilot to look up, "It was too close, Face. I-…we nearly lost you." His expression was drawn unhappily as he looked into Face's eyes.

Face couldn't deny that it definitely felt like he had been drawn back from the brink of death, although the pain in his abdomen was more than enough to assure him he was still alive. He smiled at Murdock and squeezed his hand.

"I'm not going anywhere." He told him, "You should know I'd never just leave you like that." He added, pushing his strained voice to the limits.

"But-" Murdock started, but Face shook his head by way of cutting him off.

"Besides…" He slowed down to give his pained throat time to recover, "I knew I'd be fine."

"**You did?" The pilot asked quietly, head tilted, and Face nodded.**

"**Of course." It was getting harder to concentrate as tiredness started to take over again, "Because you were there. And I trust you." **

**He saw Murdock blink in surprise and then smile before he drifted back into an easy sleep, his fingers staying curled around the pilot's hand, trusting him to keep him safe.**


End file.
